


caffeinated

by decidingdolan



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Coffee, College/Coffee Shop AU, Credence-Centric, Dessert, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, non-linear timeline, tw: abuse, tw: emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8608432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: You're the extreme introvert, and he's the school's most popular boy. You're running away from problems at home, and he's your only source of escapism. Somewhere along the way, friends become lovers, and there's nothing that a decent cup of brewed coffee can't fix.





	1. one

 

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> _This is the prelude to love: Be careful!_
> 
>  
> 
> _\--Marcel Proust, The Captive_
> 
>  
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

You’re staring at the cup of coffee before you, transfixed, absorbed. Watched the steam rise from that dark brown, watched his fingers drum on the table.

“What’s the matter?” he’s asking you then, clean cut words, dripping with warmth, with genuine (as genuine as it could get, your mind was saying) concern, some sort of otherworldly air. Percival Graves caught your eyes, and you weren’t exactly sure what to say.

So he’d bought you coffee. So you were out with him at a nice-looking café with nice-looking crowds and permeating caffeine odour, all bright skylight, high ceilings and wooden benches.

 _What difference from home_ , piped up the little guy in your head. _What difference._

But seeing him, continuing to see him (and hoping for more, perhaps? Was it even in your right mind to hope? Did you stand a chance, a flicker of one, even?) was escapism itself. Was it not.

 _How did we get here_ , you were asking yourself. His hand took yours in from across the table, pristine pressing on battered, pooling heat on mild cold sweat, and time warped.

 

* * *

 

 

There were knocks on the door, but you were too lost in their echoes to get up.

You’re cowered up on the floor, back to the wall and legs stretched out. Your hand, palm marks streaked with drops of blood, stung. Artwork of a deranged soul, a senseless painting administered by the metal belt hidden away in the second drawer next to your bed. Your cheeks were damp, stained from drops of tears you were holding back. The clean hand brushed the tears away, and the marked one rested at your lap as drops rained down.

 _You’re crying_ , her voice (that, too) refused to leave your head.

_How weak, don’t you know. Tears make you weak._

So you hid your tears from her, ran into your room once it was all over, and stayed.

You could never please her. You could never escape. You’d seen her eyes, scanning your peers, your friends, your sisters. Not in the way she stared at you.

“Credence.”

Modesty’s fragile voice rang outside the door. You tried to imagine her: white night gown, stretched to her feet, shoulder-length blonde hair all let down and blue eyes wide as the moon. She’s about your waist now, big girl. Always by your side when no one was. Chastity was Ma’s pet, that was the norm. Curled strawberry locks and kiss-ass sentences. Little Miss Prim and Proper, that lithe figure in pencil skirts and billowing blouses. A try-hard. Not her fault, but Modesty, as she was, ended up being your and Ma’s favorite, no questions asked.

“Credence.”

She’s repeating your name again, a plea. There’s a softness to the word, the sort of innocent comfort, much as an eight-year-old could gift you. You placed the word in your head, let it run. Credence.

But what were you supposed to believe as true? Was there such an idea anymore? Was there one left.

You brushed a hand on your Flash t-shirt, glanced at your jeans. Light washed and rumpled. One out of the few pairs you owned.

Modesty’s big blues shone back at you when you opened the door, and her baby hand grazing your marked one seemed to mean all the optimism in the world.

 

* * *

 

 

A brownie cupcake bounced in front of you, and you blinked.

“Eat,” said Tina Goldstein, arms crossed at her chest (from your low eye-level view anyway). “For God’s sake, you look like you’ve been starved for weeks!” She’s staring you down, the scrutiny. The upper year bumped into you at a film club meeting, and had unofficially registered herself as your carer since.

You picked up the cupcake, inspecting it. Eyed the sunflower seeds on the sponge surface, nearly twirling the cake around, if it weren’t for her hand shoving the cake into your palm.

You stepped back, startled.

She huffed a sigh. “Credence,” Tina’s reverted to her instructive, exasperated tone, “Credence. It’s food. Don’t stare, just eat it.”

She’s got on a grey crew neck tee, with _This is What a Feminist Looks Like_ , printed on in bold navy, the same color as the hoodie she’d thrown on top of her black jeans.

You raised your head, saw her from the corner of your eye. Wet your lips.

“ _Brownie_.”

She’s a political science major, you remembered, concentrations on women studies. Endless, steady drive. Confidence erupting from within, and that unshakeable stubbornness to stick by her beliefs no matter what.

Her solid voice was it personified.

“Doesn’t seem like he wants it, Teen.” You slowly turned to the voice, and there was Tina’s younger sister, Queenie, walking toward you two with a dance in each step.

You thought you’d been colorblind until you met her. Your world was monochrome, dull greys, and Queenie splashed into life’s scenes, pinks and saccharine. She’s syrup-soaked pancakes, voice and act, much as Tina was your broccoli on a Monday morning.

Tina shook her head. “Stop trying to read his mind,” she muttered, snatched the brownie from you then, thrusting it into your trousers’ pocket. “Here,” her blunt word struck you, direct, “Keep it, if you must. Don’t forget it’s there, okay?”

She’s coaxing you now, you could tell, maternal. Queenie was hovering close. A psychology major, her bubbly air somehow managed to radiate off to you.

Cheerfulness, a rarity. Queenie reminded you such a thing existed, and you were more than thankful for that. For her.

“Okay,” you managed a reply, nodding. Tina slapped your shoulder, bent her slim form slightly to be at your eye level. Queenie followed suit.

“Take care, honey,” Queenie whispered, stroking your cheek, “You need food. Lots of food.” She whipped her head to Tina, voice alert, “Ooh, let’s do it. Let’s get him a—“

Tina raised a hand. “Maybe later, Queenie,” she said, firm, “We still have that project for Alistair’s class, remember?”

“Aww,” cooed Queenie, trace of a frown on her lips, “But we should do it some time! We must!”

You had no idea how someone could be that upbeat throughout a day. Queenie’s sentences were a stark contrast to those you’d grown up around at home.

“And we will,” agreed Tina, grabbing Queenie’s hand, “We will.” The duo waved to you as they stepped away. You looked up.

Was in the middle of deciding to wave back when they disappeared from sight.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Oh_ , you’re late,” was Newt’s greeting to you when you showed up at the café.

An aspiring vet studying medical science, he got roped in with you when the coffee place’s manager hired you both as part-time kitchen staff.

You tilted your head in his direction, lips thin, “I’m sorry.” Your phrase was soft, a mumble to the voice in your head, and Newt rushed to your side, hand on your shoulder.

He gave you a corner smile. “Not to worry,” he said, “It’s taken care of.” He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbow, apron tied at his waist, and you noticed minor coffee stains on his thigh. “Was looking for you, that’s all.”

Your eyes darted to his face, quizzical eyes that spelled curiosity and unruly hair that never seemed to tidy itself. Newt Scamander was already a scientist in the making.

“Anything I can do?” you asked, the air empty around you when he seemed to own the space. Newt skipped from one corner of the room to the other, agile and nimble around his habitat, while you were frozen on the spot, trying to find a focus.

He turned, handed you a cloth. “Dishes,” Newt wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, “I’ll go prep the beans for tonight.”

You accepted the cloth from him, staring up at the man who was more comfortable around silence and knowledge than fellow humans.

_“I know,” Newt was saying, the first time you met him, “I don’t like crowds either.”_

You were drawn back with his finger tapping on your wrist.

“You okay, Credence?” he asked, and the way he was scanning you reminded you somewhat of Tina, for an unexplained reason. “You’re awful quiet.”

“Well, quieter than you’ve been,” he added, shrugging a little.

You watched him, unblinking. “I’m okay,” you claimed his word, “I’m okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

You imagined him kissing you.

Soft lips, heated hands. Wrung around your neck and his chest pressed against you.

That velvet voice slithering off your name.

His breaths teasing the skin at your neck.

Percival Graves was sitting in the café, black blazer over a crisp white shirt and undercut hair gelled up. Your fingers were pressed against that gaping kitchen door, your eyes locking onto the sight of him.

Like he was the solitary figure in the room.

He’s the Student Body President, first of his class, an authoritative figure and near close to impossible for you to make yourself known.

He was too far off for you to be seen.

You didn’t remember when you noticed him first, this model guy. This specimen. But he looked back at you one time, and hope bloomed in your chest.

Absurd.

That his eyes could have so much hold on you. That his voice could lure you in the way it did.

But there you were, peeping on him and waiting, wanting to get noticed. To be noticed.

You felt a wooden spoon prodding at your back. Newt’s voice sounded, and all was white noise.

“Hey, Credence,” he whispered, “You mind covering that table? I’ve an emergency.”

 

 


	2. two

 

 

 

_You don’t get to choose who handles your heart. There are simply people who were born with it in their teeth. When you meet them, it is best to build a bomb shelter._

_\--Tara Hardy_

 

  

* * *

 

He looked different. Different, and not quite himself, and you couldn't figure out why.

Percival smiled, a tug at the corner of his lips. He caught you staring- _busted_ \- and your eyes flitted off.

Away from him, to, uh, something--something else maybe. That--

"This?" he touched a finger to the rim of his glasses. Pushed the bridge up his nose. "Yeah, I do wear them. Was running late this morning."

He winked. Your heart flopped, collapsed. Your coffee arrived. And things happened out of order.

"Contacts, right?" he was sipping his Americano, unhurried, calm, "The hassle."

You wondered then how he could be so cool, so suave, about the whole thing. Like it was his second nature to reason himself to you, who was of no importance to him, mind you.

"I--I wouldn't know," you said, supplying the only words you thought sensible for a reply. He chuckled, shook his head.

"'Course you wouldn't," he said, and those eyes radiated the sort of warmth that could thaw ice caps. You nearly flinched the first time he looked at you that way, the sheer impossibility of one human forming connections with another and expressing his appreciation of it. His favor for it. His commitment to it. Percival's eyes pierced your soul and had you dumbstruck, stuck to your seat.

Exaggerations? You should have felt time passed. You should have known it was only plausible the look you shared was mere seconds, reality stated. You should have shaken yourself awake and get with the clock. It's wrong. It's all, so very wrong. That you were that attached. That you were much owned-- _Christ_ \--by him, and it's been a few days since you'd made his acquaintance in the cafe.

He got you every time.

And you forgot yourself. You're sliding down the black hole, into his void, a trap, a gaping Pandora's box. A prison cell you willingly backed yourself into.

"You wouldn't," he continued, finger pointing at you, "Because you're _the_ lucky one with the proper eyesight."

And the way he said it was free of spite, was without irony, was with something akin to the word you spotted in books, in those plays you studied for class. Fondness, that was it.

But the question throbbed your mind, much as it did your heart.

_Why?_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You totally danced with him. Yes, you did! Don't deny it, Teeny!"

Queenie's voice was the first you heard when you approached their table at lunch.

Tina covered her face with her hands, let out a monstrous groan.

"You had to say it," she dropped her hands to the table, shot Queenie a look.

(And by Tina's standards, long as you'd known her, a look was her unspoken, yet barely masked, disapproval.)

"You had to, didn't you?" she's repeating, muttering under her breath. Queenie giggled.

Light, breezy, way too sweet sprinkles on a cupcake topping.

"Why," she grinned when you sat down opposite them, "He was _cute_. Oh hi, Credence."

Her little wave brightened the room, if such a miracle was possible.

"Forget it, Queenie," Tina gave a wave of dismissal, voice brusque, "Never gonna see him again and you know it."

Queenie rubbed her hands together, swaying slightly in her seat. "Ohh you never know," she was humming, "I say, "Never say Never.""

You admired the honeyed optimism in her voice, that luminous hope, an all-knowing cheekiness. Like she was too aware of what she was on about. Dreamy, but not without her feet floating close to the ground.

"What are you...talking about?" you managed to ask (finally), once the sisters calmed down. Tina rolled her eyes.

"Nothi--"

"This guy she met at the bar last night!" Queenie chimed in, her cheeriness infectious, "He was, oh, about six two, curly reddish brown hair, blue eyes. Tall, awkward, and obsessed with animals. Just obsessed."

"Dork," said Tina, but you recalled that same affection in Percival's voice to you. "Total. Dork."

"Tina's type," Queenie whispered, loud enough for you to hear, leaning on her sister's left.

Tina elbowed her. "I don't have _a type_."

Queenie's lips curved into a mocking "O."

And amidst all this, you sat silent and watching, fascinated by their interactions and pleased, with the silliest amount, of enjoying such frivolity.

Home was frigid, a barricaded 'nother world. Hammer on some cracks, creak open the door.

Let some light in.

The table shook then, and you turned around, fearful of the imaginary earthquake in your head.

"Um," said a thin figure in a blue coat, a peculiar shade you hadn't seen before but one that was oddly fitting to him. He had on a navy jumper over his collared shirt and grey trousers. A brown leather satchel slung over his form. "I'm terribly sorry but would you mind if I join--"

"Of course! It's a busy time of day!" said Queenie, looking up at him. She gasped.

"You're--"

"Newt," said Tina, in a tone that may or may not reflected the chain of events that occurred the night before.

The redhead looked puzzled, taken aback by the attention.

"Credence," said Newt, deflecting. The sisters whipped their heads around from him to face you, almost in unison.

"Wait, you two know each other?" asked Queenie, and you wished you knew how to begin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Queenie told you it was called Murphy's Law.

To have certain events happen when you're least prepared for them, when you least expected them to.

Ma cut your hair this morning, and you were fingering the ends of your strands. Stared at yourself in the mirror, the straight lines- bangs--that's what they called them--at your forehead, the way the haircut outlined your skull.

Someone tapped your shoulder, and you turned, out of place and out of time. Felt like you were floating in space, suspended. That tap was a needle poking at your bubble, an alarm clock sounded against your closed up barrier to the rest of the world.

"You working?"

His words were distant, imagined echoes. You raised your head, couldn’t bring your eyes to face him, choosing to stare at the desk behind him instead.

You nodded, lips agape, the slightest bit. “Yes, I—“

His eyes refused to leave your face. You started to feel yourself fading, your presence in this computer lab a definite dream.

“Good, well,” he was tapping your shoulder, still, squeezing it. Shivers spread through panicked nerves, “Fancy running into you here.”

“You too,” you said, forcing yourself to return his gaze for one moment. He was Friday night, slicked back hair and lazy day white t-shirt. A sight that reminded you that weekend was a possibility, that weekend was real.

You were in the middle of explaining yourself. Did you even need to?

_But why was he there?_

He granted you that smile, subtle, mild. You lost yourself staring into his lips—long, supple lines, and there went your mind again. Where you shouldn’t have gone.

Your hair was terrible, most terrible on this day, and all the world’s justice dictated he should run into you when you were knee-deep in work and he’s a goddamn walking perfection without a sweat on his brow.

“I thought you left,” you whispered, hand palming the surface of the desk you were sitting at, hankering for support, any sort of support.

(It was, to frame the situation in its rightful perspective, Thursday night. That danger zone. The not-quite-Friday, the unmistakable worst day of the week. This week, anyway.)

He chuckled, ran a hand through his hair. “No,” he glanced at the rows of computers behind you, “Couple of things to be done. All wrapped up now. You, uh, want to go for pizza?”

“Me?” you’re pointing a finger at yourself. He’d just dropped a bomb and not given you instructions on reacting.

Relax, Credence. Come on.

It’s only the most carelessly handsome guy in school standing in the basement computer lab asking you to go out for dinner with him.

Only that.

“ _Me_ ….with _you_?”

He snuck a look at the doorway, hands behind his back. “Pretty sure you’re hearing that right,” he said, “Boy with the bangs.”

You blushed, heavy and hard. Red hitting your face and heat coloring in your cheeks.

_Oh, God._

_Guess we threw ‘stay cool,’ as a option out the window._

“I hate it,” you confessed, palm touching the back of your head, “Ma insisted.”

He waved, dismissive. “C’mon,” Percival started, “Just teasing you, no need to take it literally.”

You coughed. He offered you his hand, and the world turned in slow-motion.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Wait.”

You stopped short, traced back your steps to face him, the cardboard menu of the coffee place pressed on your chest.

 _What was Newt’s sudden emergency, and why did he have to leave you to battle_ this _alone?_

He tilted his head, eyes mapping your face, and you felt exposed, raw, torn. Percival Graves’ eyes could do that to you.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” he’s asking. You heard a coin drop in the bottomless well in the back of your head. “At school.” He clicked his fingers. “You’re---you’re—“

“Credence,” you replied, stressing your name and nails digging further into the cardboard you were holding, “Barebone. Credence.”

“Right!” he snapped his finger, “Credence.”

And that sound. Your name, coated in his voice. Your ears never wanted to hear another. That, on repeat. That, alone on vinyl, on recording, in your mind, you needed little else.

You were certain you had not heard your name until that second.

It was him granting the syllables their meaning. It was him relishing the sounds of the word. It was him cementing _that_ belief that something was to be true.

It was him, saying your name. Acknowledging you. Confirming your existence, merging yours and his. He had called you, and little else mattered.

“Are you ordering—“

“Oh,” he leaned back in his chair, “I—no. You’re good, Credence. You’re good. I was—“ he tapped a finger on his head, “Remembering you. ‘s all,” he finished.

You stared at him, almost forgetting you were doing so.

Started walking toward the kitchen when you found yourself again, and cursed to yourself.

You spotted coins, plenty tip left on the tray, and a series of digits written in cursive handwriting at the bottom of the bill.

 

_Coffee? When you’re not working,_

_Percival._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man.
> 
> Such a flirt. Our boy.
> 
> #KissesforCredence.
> 
> Writing this is life support to me right now. Grad school. is. Grad school.
> 
> (Ya know it.)
> 
> #ICanDoThis


	3. three

 

 

 

_"Nothing like love to put blood back in the language,"_  

_\--Margaret Atwood, from[Selected Poems II: 1976 - 1986](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.com%2FSelected-Poems-II-1976-1986%2Fdp%2F0395454069&t=ZTFjYjYyOTYxYzMxMWRjZDQ2YzRhZWNjZGY2OGRlNTY5YzYxMTFiOCwzTk9ZdDZRMQ%3D%3D&b=t%3ARcuih5Tzi7mzzRzVY8kyyA&m=1) _

 

  

* * *

 

 

"You like him."

"What?"

Queenie's rosy pedicured nail poked at your chest.

" _You_ \--" she picked at the word, light, playful, "Like him."

You sucked in a breath, placed her saucer and cup in front of her on the counter.

"But I—"

She wiggled a finger, picked up her mocha for a dainty sip without a pause.

"It's clear. I'm seeing all the signs. Mhm, good coffee, by the way. Teen agrees, right, Teen?"

Her last sentence she motioned at the closed kitchen doors. And Tina Goldstein poked her head out, costing her sister that few seconds of conversational rapport, not a hair out of place. But her lipstick appeared to have lost some of its color, and her eyes had the subtle dazed glaze of someone just woken up from a nap.

"What, Cred and Percival?" she asked, wetting her lips. You're standing behind the counter of your daily workplace during your usual shift hours, yet feeling the place more alien to you by the minute.

The sisters came by after class. You nearly dropped the bag of the place's custom house blend beans on the floor when you saw Queenie's curled blonde locks pushed in, Tina's long blazer slash coat following.

Tina nodded, curt. "Thought you knew," her fingers were plastered to the door, her head half-turned back, "Obvious."

And she disappeared, doors slamming after her. For all that kitchen did to you, five hours every weekday evening, Tina's transformed it into a mysterious wasteland.

_What could they possibly be doing in there for—so long?_

Queenie flashed you a smile when you returned to her.

"They're just," she flicked her wrist in the direction of the doors, another hand stirring her empty cup, "You know, sorting things out."

The place was empty, save for your lot. Couple of hours more, and students would be cramming in. The café was minutes away from the campus, after all.

“Forget about _them_ , honey. Give them time,” said Queenie, beckoning you to her simply by her voice, “Let’s focus on you two.”

She’s leaning on the counter, cheeks on palms, strawberry lips stretched wide, and you’re at a loss for words.

“Now,” she began, “Tell me. Really tell me. What’s it like with him?”

 

* * *

 

He stroked your cheek and called you beautiful.

Sometimes you wanted to erase those years—those pesky years—between you two.

Freshman and a senior. Some classic Hollywood, straight-to-DVD cliche.

Your eyes drifted shut of their own accord when skin grazed skin. Would rather sense his contact, drink it in full and oversaturate, cloak yourself in nothingness, than allow the world's wild distractions to ruin his show.

You ended up in an alley, god knows why, flyers plastered in random clusters on both sandwiching sides' red brick walls and a trash can hidden to a left corner.

The air was damp, September dirt. The space too small and all too confining. His breaths brushed your hair, and his leather jacket's cutting across your skin.

He paid, you blinked, time jumped. You'd recall the logistics of it, the causal chains, and play connect the dots for this third date with him, if your stupid, emotionally (and hormonally) driven impulses would grant you that ability.

Affects tampered judgments, as they would, landed you direct where you'd slide further and loosen your grip on reason.

What do you know, he's already camped out in your head. A mental drawer, that's what it was. You'd allocated him one, left him a space, when he winked at you through those glasses.

Silly moment to fall for someone. Most bizarre. But it happened, an even worse thing. Was that it happened.

You're looking straight into his eyes when you're back in yourself again, the back of his hand on your cheek.

"Percival, I—," you whispered his name, surprise and panic triggering at how you'd managed to do so in such close proximity to him.

His eyes widened a little, dark browns zeroing in on you, those magical eyebrows almost straight lines.

"Credence," he replied, voice caressing the syllables of your name, and you were floating, suspended, "Credence."

His arms wrapped themselves around your waist at his word's finish, and you're standing, stone-still.

Was this. Was this what they call a hug. Was this what people—certainly not Ma—did to express their affections? Was this the envelope of warmth Queenie's on about when she talked of this sophomore working front of the bakery shop a few blocks from campus…Was this—

"Do you know," he said, voice slithering over the phrase, "How beautiful you are?"

You blinked, shook your head.

"Beautiful," you repeated, doubting his choice of words, perplexed over his choice of you, and confused over the entire situation.

It's the last, even forgotten, word you would associate with yourself.

Or other aspects of your origin, your home, your life. Really.

“Me….” you said, attempting and failing to link the word to you. As if his hand drifting from your cheek to your jawline would help. Breaths were rationed, heartbeats split and doubled and taken on an erratic dance.

"Why?"

You almost regretted the question leaving your lips. He scanned your eyes, pressed his index on your lips.

"Shh," he whispered.

"You're special, you are. First time we met—I should've seen you before, I swear.”

His hand crept up the back of your neck, thumb kneading on skin, a slow burning fire.

You're gasping now, head too light and nerves too thin. He's a gushing waterfall, and you'd been a lone wanderer scalping traces of water in the desert of affection.

It's the contact. The intimacy with which you'd shared with no other than that piece of belt. Brushing on your skin, drawing blood, all too familiar, all too known, and no less dreadful.

His hand was heaven. His hand was health. It's sinful to think this, worse to feel it, blasphemy to believe it, the direct logical conclusion being the alternate state was hell.

But home was safe, was it not. That so-called quarantined space of purity, prayer, and contemplation on one’s past sins. A church, a religion, a unified belief. Ma got inside your head, planted the seed, and stayed.

He’s touching you, both hands cupping your cheeks, and drawing you closer, the sensuality of which banished those lingering, nagging thoughts of home. Or where home was supposed to be. Where home supposedly was.

You felt his breaths on your neck, warm, scattered, just as you’d imagined. Exactly just.

He leaned in, pressed his lips on yours. You’re praying for your heart, and yet your thirst had never been less quenched. You eased yourself into him, hands drifted down to his waist, desperate to find a surface to hold onto.

He’s locked you in, lips and tongues and asking you to stay. He groaned against your lips, tongue wrapped around yours, and you could almost fool yourself into believing he was home.

 

* * *

 

 

Newt’s _emergency_ turned out to be someone’s birthday party at a pub, an event he confessed to sensing the need (at the very last minute) to get ready for.

You’re sitting opposite him at one of the rounded tables. The café was deserted, closed. Between you and him was a cup of steaming Earl Grey, and he’s spilling to you a playback of sorts.

“She was—I don’t know how to say this—direct,” he sat, back to the chair and palms clutching at his knees. You wondered if he had siblings to talk to at home, when you’d rather not converse with Chastity and Modesty was too pure to be corrupted by the world’s realities. “I bumped into her, you know,” he shut his eyes now, probably recalling the details of the moment, “Typical me. Predictable.”

Newt took a sip of his tea.

(You made yourself nothing. It was home from this point on, an early sleep and the plainest of breakfasts. Grimy gothic doors and windows that were sealed shut. Ma’s prayers in the other room sending you off into her spiritual world, and you doubted caffeine was a necessity anymore.)

“She’s not the birthday girl, no,” he brushed a hand on the table, “A friend. Somebody. I think I know. At least, I thought I do.”

And you’re smiling a little, hearing him speak, attempting to weave fragments of his story into a coherent whole.

Pay you the rest of the year’s salaries, and you’d fail short of Newt Scamander retelling his encounter with the girl who captured his attention.

Percival’s note still lay at the bottom of your grey hoodie’s pocket, crumbled and burning. You hadn’t shown anyone the paper, for fear of this solidified dream turning into pieces of an imaginary illusion.

“I’m listening,” you told him, nodding, “Do go on.”

He laughed, embarrassed, though there was nothing to be laughed at. (You hadn’t a clue why.) Newt’s cheeks were salmon, light shades. Lean fingers stirred up the curls at his forehead.

“Her eyes. When she’s looking at you. It’s. They hold you. Not sure if you know what I mean, Credence. We had our drinks. She’s got her Moscow Mule. I picked up my beer. And we were there, right. Just us two. The party escaped us, somehow, I don’t know. She started it, chit-chats. Small-talks. I’m crap at small talks, you know that—(You gave him another nod.)—but I got on with her fine. I told her I’m not one for parties, and she’s grinning and agreeing with me and saying she had to be here, too.”

He hid his face in his hands suddenly, voice muffled through the gaps between his fingers. “I—she, well. She beat me to it. She asked me to dance. I was going to.”

You’re watching him, half-squirming in his seat and still struggling to continue. “I had no idea what I was doing,” he’s laughing again, at himself, at the memory. His eyes lit up, hands thrown up in the air. “But the band was playing that song—that song they overplay on the radio. Something upbeat and peculiar. Pop. _Shut up and Dance_ , I think, and she just. Lost herself.”

He had this private smile adorning his lips as he talked of her, a smile with an unsaid meaning only him and her were privy to.

You slid forward in your seat, closer to him. “You had fun,” you said, hands clasped together, “That’s good, Newt. That’s…good, I guess.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, shut them again, brief, rapid. “Wish it were that, Cred. Really do.”

He sighed, threw himself back on the chair. You made a mental note of reorganizing them around the café.

“It’d end if I forget about her, if I left the party and that’s how the night went,” Newt bit his lip, paused. He finished up the last of his tea, placing the cup down at the saucer with a small ‘clank.’

“But I can’t. And I haven’t been. I don’t think I’ve met a girl like her,” he puffed out his cheeks, and you found it hard not to laugh. “Cliches, I know. All of them. You can’t help but think. For all the blame you direct toward people, the songs, the books, the poetry. You meet someone, and you’re a walking cliché yourself, guilty and ready to spawn even more cliches.”

He glanced around, as if to look for her. His eyes shone with an emotion you couldn’t identify when he turned to face you again.

“I want to see her again, Credence, and I’m hoping—god, I’m hoping. I’m hoping that I don’t.”

He was playing with the cup’s holder, finger tracing a line around the porcelain.

“Funny thing is, you’re reduced to that logic. It’s you and the other person, isolated from whatever else. You’re drowned out of words, and you have a million things to say.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do realize it's a bit bizarre (even I still can't believe this happened) to be dropping this here, but, if you are so inclined, this is me interviewing Ezra Miller at the Fantastic Beasts London Press Junket for National Union of Students UK: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkN41E3gRpc&feature=youtu.be. 
> 
> Edited and uploaded the clip myself. All questions were mine. Otherwise, the full interview with the cast and director can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npDb_WsAooo&feature=youtu.be
> 
> (Other full clips - like Ezra's interview - to be uploaded soon.)
> 
> Enjoy :)


	4. four

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
> _I had two longings and one was fighting the other. I wanted to be loved and I wanted to be always alone._
> 
>  
> 
> _**\--Jean Rhys,** from Wide Sargasso Sea (W. W. Norton, 1966)_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

"Sugar's nice," you muttered, and he chuckled.

 

A pause, and you're glancing at the array of desserts on the table. A cup of tiramisu, a neatly cut slice of Japanese style strawberry cheesecake Newt baked this morning. Even two of the Belgian waffles you got off the machine yourself a few hours ago, drizzled with chocolate sauce.

 

The plate of waffles slid toward you, and his index was nudging your pinkie on the table.

 

"Not nice enough," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, "You've got to eat it too."

 

Your skin burned where his finger had grazed it. You're seated, back to the chair and head empty of the day's memories. He'd stopped by, closing time, when Newt had gone home and you were mopping up the floor.

 

"Sorry we're— _oh_."

 

And you'd almost swallowed that little oh, that pathetic ghost of a proper sound when you saw his face.

 

It's worse than a squirrel's squeak. It's your salient white flag.

 

Your heart's a victim, beating against your chest like banging on the skin of a drum.

 

It's been three days since you last saw him. These damn games our bodies played with our hearts.

 

He pushed his way in, black jeans and a grey shirt. You're combat boots and a washed out statement tee, and you'd given up on figuring out how he made simple worked as flawless.

 

Clouded mind, tunnel judgment maybe, but that's the logic you'd come to accept.

 

It's funny and it's decidedly, stupidly irrational, this warped world.

 

This heart under influence.

 

This mind under control.

 

"Credence, hey," he said, and you're licking your lips, the mop pushed to one corner of the counter.

 

You're untying the apron at your waist, eyes locked on him out of surprised confusion.

 

"Hi...Percival," you replied, backing yourself to the counter behind you, hands clasped on the edges. "What are—what are you doing here? We're closed, I'm afraid."

 

He stepped closer, eyes still directed at you, no connections broken, no heartbeats interrupted. "But you're here," he continued, that smooth voice attaching much more impact to the pronoun that was meant for you than it should (at least, in your head). "So I've already found what I'm looking for."

 

Bang.

 

A gunshot went off in your head.

 

It's too good. It's too nice. It's too fantastical. To be real.

 

Your cheeks were fire, heat burning through your nerves when you answered him. "Y-you don't mean that...I mean, I don't. I don't want to disappoint anyo--"

 

And he's grabbed you and spoke to you through his kiss. Soft lips scented of vanilla swallowing yours in. His hands found themselves at your waist, something you're coaxing yourself to get used to, when your heart fervently begged to differ.

 

Your hand drifted up to his hair, finger lingering, playing with the strands in spite of yourself.

 

And he's pressing himself against you, mutters and murmurs under his breaths. You're holding yourself together, steadying your heart, but only barely so.

 

"You're you," he's whispering when you broke apart, hand brushing hair off your cheek, "And it's 7pm on a weekday. Don't think I've come all this way to be disappointed."

 

You're eyeing your boots at the floor. "You didn't have to—I..."

 

His fingers filled in the gaps of yours, and you almost jumped.

 

"You're cute," he said (and your blushing was out of control by this point), "You know that. _I_ like that."

 

He's pulling you toward one of the tables, and you're following, allowing yourself to be led.

 

"I like _you_ ," he stated, sweet and simple. Straight and true.

 

And you're staring at him, heart a broken compass and head conflicted, a full and empty glass.

 

"Me too," you managed, against the sounds of your heartbeats.

 

"Percival, me too."

 

* * *

 

 

Here's a thought: the camera doesn't hate you.

 

He's got his arms around you. White background. Blinding lights, and a flashing digital camera slung across some bearded hipster's neck.

 

The school's golden boy was in a play, and today was the promotional photoshoot.

 

 _Come_. a text dinged through at 4pm. your phone buzzed. You jumped, and the water in that brimming glass spilled over in the slightest bit.

 

_it'll be less painful this way._

 

And you smiled. A reflex reaction, an unconscious act.

 

Because was this what it was—to talk to someone. All the time. To get to know him. To want to talk to him. To think about him. To miss him.

 

Beat you wide awake and you'd still be lost in his day dream.

 

Escapism was a welcoming land compared to home's gritty battlegrounds.

 

 _the camera hates me_ , you typed back, after few seconds' deliberation.

 

The reply was immediate, almost. And your heart was doing unspeakable gymnastics through invisible loops.

 

_I'm here, remember? I'm enough for both of us._

And it’s ridiculous how sudden the transient sentiment crept into you and stayed.

 

So there you were, ass on chair, watching him twirl and smile and pretend-laugh, his arms around the leading lady and his eyebrows raised at the gang of friends handpicked for him—his character—by virtue of some written words.

 

“You’re good. Great. We’re done here,” said the producer. The cameraman was readjusting his frames, looking over the photos, when he motioned you over.

 

You met his eyes, your lips turning him down. Shook your head.

 

He came around.

 

“One picture, Cred,” he whispered, standing next to you, “Look. While it’s all nice and set up. One, for me and you to keep.” He laced his fingers through yours.

 

“It’ll be ours.”

 

And you hesitated and you blinked. Scanned his eyes and tried to excuse yourself out. Your brain came up empty, your lips parched. You swallowed down words, and stood up to follow him.

 

* * *

 

Tina's laughing at her phone, and you felt a million questions downing on you at once, rain in July.

 

She's been stoic, but not quite what Queenie (lovingly, you believed) termed Resting Bitch Face. Composed, but not completely frozen. Curt, but never without warmth.

 

But her laughs were transparent, crystal. Crisp, like those first fallen fall leaves. Light, like pastel colored candy in a jar.

 

Her lips' stretched, cheeks wide, and eyes captured by the screen. You're cleaning a mug, white cloth in one hand, as you stood behind the counter, watching her at the stool.

 

She placed the phone flat on the counter then, face down. Her forehead was pressed against the wooden counter surface, the next you looked up, palms splayed on either side of her.

 

"It's ridiculous," she's muttering when she glanced up to face you, bobbed mane slightly gone askew, "I can't believe him."

 

"You...can't believe--what?" you asked, placing the mug upside down on the counter.

 

She rolled her eyes, mimed a gun shot to her head. "Scamander," she tutted, blew wind through her lips, "Your friend. _Newt_."

 

Your eyebrows shot up before you could stop yourself.

 

She waved a hand. "He's—we're arguing ab—" Tina bit her lip. You watched thoughts flicker through her eyes. "You know what," she said, and you sensed another conversation wrapped and recorded in her memory bank. "Never mind."

 

You frowned.

 

Tina leaned forward in her seat, elbows on the counter. "Credence, Credence. It's nothing," she's shaking her head, "You'd laugh if you really know what it's about!"

 

It’s been weeks. That nonsensical truth’s remained a secret between the girl activist and the boy healer. You rid yourself of curiosity and decided to let time run its course.

 

People, said Percival, people sometimes hid secrets that weren’t secrets at all.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by/reading/ and leaving a comment!
> 
> Loves,
> 
> Your ever humble fanfic writer
> 
> x


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